Ed Wood Jr. Knows My Soul

October 10, 2022

The one artist (besides myself, of course) that I admire is Ed Wood Jr. I admire him because he shouldn’t, by all accounts, exist on this planet, yet he kept his head down and kept going.  They treated him like shit, and even though he had to rely on the food thrown away by the Hollywood industry, he kept going like an insect or, to be more precise, a cockroach.  Like Wood, I had to swallow a lot of shit from people who just took pleasure in shitting in my mouth.   I know the taste, and I have the taste of Ed Wood in my mouth.  People like Thelonious Monk just wanted to do their art in peace. Yet they were thrown against the wall, told that they were insane or just to go away. Of course, cops with blackjack wanted the taste of Monk’s blood on their hands.   A human being with a vision never gives up.  I, on the other hand, always give up.

“Surrender” should be my middle name.  Not everyone is blessed to have a Pannonica to watch your back.  A true fan, she took care of both Charlie Parker and Thelonious in their moments of sickness and joyous. If we’re lucky, and most are not, we have a version of Pannonica in our lives.  I do, and she allows a space to be had where I can roam without a passport or care.  But, of course, that is an illusion.  When I go into a movie theater to see a film by Ed Wood, for instance, “The Sinister Urge, ” I am reminded here is an artist that was barely holding on to respectability.  He was at the bottom of the trash heap, and after this film, it would be called a blur of smut racket nudie flicks, softcore porn, ending with x-rated novels and movies.” Alas, an artist flew too close to the sun, so his wings burned off and crashed into the earth.  One then wonders if he was an artist?  Perhaps he dwells in a world of his making but not by choice.  You go to the world with materials on hand, and with that tool and substance, you hope to make something great.  It’s a giant leap into the faith that somehow it will turn out OK.  Wood wasn’t afraid like I was. He took numerous risks in a world that was hostile toward him.

Thelonious was a different type of character.  He knew he was placed on the right wavelength; overall, I don’t think he cared what others thought of him. “I say, play your own way.  Don’t play what the public wants.  You play what you want and let the public pick up on what you’re doing - even if it does take them fifteen, twenty years.” Wood needed acceptance in a large marketplace.  Monk lived totally through instinct.  He had no plan because he loved the moment when it happened and didn’t look back when it passed.  I’m not only moved by his music but also his dress sense, style, and the way he danced around his piano during performances.  And it was a performance because the audience watches a moment as it happens.  It can’t be controlled or contained. It just happens.  Wood is all about craft and lousy advice.  In his book “Hollywood Rat Race,” he advises new writers to “keep on writing.  Even if your story gets worse, you’ll get better.” That depends on how one defines “worse” and “better.” But then again, Wood had commented: “What do you know?  You heard of suspension of disbelief? ”

The distinguished citizen of Hackney, Harold Pinter, once wrote: “I can’t really articulate what I feel.” Yet, of course, he does because that is exactly what writing is - to swim around articulation, and hopefully, some tragic mistake will come out of it.  It is just like squeezing the wound and watching the puss come out.  It’s disgusting but also somewhat pleasing at the same time.  Articulation is the key or the entrance of the artist’s soul, and with that in mind, that will make me successful or a failure.  And lately, I have been on a tightrope with slippery soles.